


stuck in love

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: High School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 22:56:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16842112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: stan pines, 1970-something, has a crush on the cute classmate that sits next to him in history.(word of warning: this fic is from 2015 and unedited!)





	1. Chapter 1

You couldn’t escape them. 

You had three classes together out of some stroke of luck, and you’d always see them at lunch, sitting together and talking about boats and inventions. Hell, they sat in the same row as you in homeroom, and they were almost always _there_. 

The Pines twins were somehow following you around school. 

They were somewhat popular for the one reason of being twins, and that Stanford was almost scarily smart, not to mention the whole “sixer” thing that his brother calls him about his hands. His brother was loud and obnoxious, but you could tell he cared about his brother a lot, and he always stood up to his bullies. Stanley had a good heart, but not so much a good brain. In your opinion, that was more important than what you got on a science test. 

You’d caught him staring at you in class multiple times, and whenever you made eye contact with him he flinched and turned to face the board, eyes wide, cheeks pink. It was sweet, but he wasn’t very good at hiding his affections for you. 

"Hey, watch this…!“ His whisper catches your attention in the middle of history, and you turn to look at him, a brow raised. Stanley folds his (empty) sheet of notes into the most perfect airplane you’d ever seen, and he tosses it across the room. Your eyes follow its voyage from the back of the classroom and into the trash can, a near perfect takeoff and landing, and you are, actually, impressed by it. 

"You ever consider designing planes, Stanley?” You whisper to him with a grin, going back to your notes and pretending you don’t hear him tell his brother “They know my name!“ 

A few days pass until he tries something else, this time, during lunch. Stanford was reading a book at his side, but Stanley was absentmindedly stirring through his mashed potatoes as you talked to your friend, catching his eye behind her head and waving at him. He perks up almost immediately and strides over to you, leaning on the table with his opposite hand on his hip in an attempt to look "casual”, but you can see that the tops of his prominent ears were red. 

"Wanna see somethin’ cool? Try ‘n guess how many push-ups I can do.“ 

You think for a moment, hushing your friend’s giggles before you say "Six hundred and eighteen." 

Stanley pales at your number choice and tugs at the collar of his shirt, gesturing with his hand for you to go lower. 

"Hah, hm… Twenty two?" 

He beams and drops to the floor in almost the same instant, and you and your friend count as he does exactly twenty-three push-ups, jumping back up without breaking a sweat. You applaud him and he bows, his theatrics making you giggle. The bell goes soon after and you tell your friend that you’d see her later, walking with him to your next class. 

He was a goofball, but he was very sweet. Not to mention his looks, of course, which you admired. 

It was a Friday when you got your test grades back in History, and you could tell he was nervous; fidgety hands, biting his lip, the whole nine yards. You reach over and pat his shoulder lightly, which makes him jump, but you smile at him and say you were certain it wouldn’t be too bad. His entire body seems to flush red at that, and Mr. Hirsch gives him his paper, a loud and proud C+ written across the top. Stanley’s immediately discouraged, but you get handed yours seconds later, a matching C+ to his in the top right corner. 

His eyes widen and he looks between you and your paper, and you shrug, saying history was never your strong point. 

"Maybe– maybe we could help each other out? Y'know, with the history stuff,” he stammers, and it’s one of the first times you’ve seen the confident and clever Stanley Pines nervous. 

Because of you, of all things. 

"I’d like that” was probably not the response he was expecting, so his answer is somewhat garbled. You laugh and grab his arm, writing your phone number across his skin with your pen, making sure not to press too hard. 

“Let me know whenever you need a study buddy, Stanley.” The corners of your lips struggle to stay in a neutral expression as Stanley stares at his arm, amazed at the ten numbers scrawled across it in your messy handwriting, and he nods after a while– at his arm, so he turns to you and nods, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. 

"And besides, you don’t need to worry about grades that much,“ you advise, noticing his sudden all over slump. “It’s alright to be stupid sometimes, after all, as long as you’re happy." 

His smile seems more sincere then, and your conversation is broken up by Mr. Hirsch starting the class– but Stanley’s attention is elsewhere, his dark eyes fixated on his arm and the ink pressed against it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan pines, 1970-something, high school. he has a crush on the cute classmate that sits next to him in history.
> 
> and he has it bad.
> 
> so he asks them to study with him. which definitely won't lead to anything other than that, right?
> 
> (word of warning: this fic is from 2015 and unedited!)

Stanley called you at least twice a week for help with your history homework, and once a week just to talk to you, usually on a Sunday. He’d tell you about what he and his brother had done with their boat, and you’d tell them about your weird grandfather and his stories about battling robots in World War II and how every other one of his toes was made of cheese, and that’s why his feet smelled so bad.

However, it was this particular Thursday that he calls you, and your mother answers the phone, yelling upstairs in the most embarrassing way possible that there was a “handsome sounding voice on the phone askin’ after my baby”, and he’s still laughing when you take the phone from her, glad he couldn’t see your mortified face.

“Hello?”

“Hey, are you busy tomorrow? I need help with all this French and Indian War stuff for the test Monday.”

You think for a moment, remembering that your friend had cancelled your plans to go out tomorrow afternoon in favor of her boyfriend. “Nah, I’m free. Your place or mine?”

Your mother’s head peeks around the corner and you swat her away as Stanley says his place works, as long as you didn’t mind his brother coming in and out as he worked on one of his projects, which you didn’t, of course. Stanford was nice, from what you’ve heard about him.

The next day— after at least fifteen minutes of interrogation from your mother when you got home from school— you head out towards the address Stanley told you the night before, finding his home in a pawn shop on the main street of Glass Shard Beach. Stanford answers your knock, saying that you’re early, and Stanley’s not back from getting food yet.

It really is remarkable how much they looked alike. Stanford, however, is much more restrained than his brother in conversation, and while you talk to pass the time, he gradually opens up, telling you about his perpetual motion machine. You’re telling him the story about your grandpa when Stanley walks back through the door, a plastic bag of groceries in his hand, and Ford is laughing at your story, your own giggles muffled by your hand over your mouth. Stanley raises a brow at the scene, but he’s grinning at the pair of you as he puts the food away into the fridge.

“Hey, I was telling Stanford about the thing my grandpa said the other day,” you tell him when he sits at your side. “About the cheesy toes.”

Stanley snorts and Stanford shakes his head, standing up and saying something about going back to his own homework before excusing himself, disappearing back upstairs. You wave at him as he leaves, and the air between you and the remaining twin seems to feel heavier.

“So, French and Indian War?” You pick up your backpack and pull out your history notes, and Stanley remembers why you’re sitting on his living room sofa in the first place, dashing up to his room to get his notebook as well. He returns soon after and sits back next to you, considerably closer than before, your legs pressed together on the couch.

You work through the notes with him until he can say the timeline for the war off the top of his head, and you lay off the notes for a bit, just talking about everything and nothing in particular. In the middle of telling a tale about your friend’s unfortunate custard incident (which was a long and elaborate story that makes him almost fall off the sofa with laughter), you notice his arm had found its way behind you, like he was too scared to actually put it around your waist, but you’re not going to object. In fact, once you finish telling the story, you lean your head on his shoulder, smiling to yourself when you feel him tense beneath you.

“You know what I want to do after high school?” You gaze out the window as the sun falls below the horizon. “I want to get out of here. Everything’s the same here, nothing ever changes. The specials at Anne-Lou’s have been the same for six months.”

Stanley laughs, and his hand moves from resting on the cushion to gently sitting atop your hip, pulling you closer.

“I want to just… Just get on a plane. Or a boat. And run away from here, away from beaches and sixty cent burgers and dancing on slippery floors. Am I just babbling— now…?”

You look up at Stanley and flush pink when you realize he’s exactly two inches from you. The two of you are frozen in time for a good minute or so until he breaks the silence.

“I really like your face.”

You press your lips together to try and keep from laughing, but it’s unavoidable. Giggles overtake any reasonable answer and you cover your mouth, trying to stop yourself, but you snort and Stanley starts laughing at that, leaning back against the couch and repeating “You snort when you laugh!” at least five times. Once your laughing fits are over, you find his forehead on your shoulder as he tries to regulate his breathing.

“I really like your face too, Stanley.”

He looks up in surprise and you smile at him knowingly, both of you blushing crimson. His hand reaches over to yours and you thread your fingers through his, and he’s leaning closer, you are too, oh god your throat’s dry, your heart’s pounding in your chest—

“Lee? Have you seen my book about Astrophysics?”

You practically leap across the couch, swiping your notes up into your lap as you go, and Stanley’s left hanging, eyes wide as his brother comes into the living room, scratching the top of his head.

“Uh, dunno where your nerd book is,” Stanley manages to reply, looking around so his brother doesn’t see his flushed cheeks. “Did you leave it in our room or somethin’? Under the bed, tried there?”

Stanford’s fingers snap and he nods, muttering about accidentally kicking it under there, and you hear his feet pad up the stairs, the door clicking shut soon after.

Stanley’s about to ask you something but you scoot over to his side, take his face in both of your hands, and kiss him instead, effectively shutting him up. He’s stiff as a board in amazement for a second before he winds his arms around you, and when you pull away, his typically confident air is replaced by a dreamy manner, complete with the half-lidded eyes and shaking hands.

“Yeah, so…"

“I know.”

“You know?”

You stare at him with a brow arched, and he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Yeah, I’m not great at the whole subtle thing. I really do like you, though. And, uh, I’m guessin'…?”

Oh, he’s such an idiot sometimes. You kiss him again, sweeter than before, softer.

“I like you too, in case you didn’t figure that out.” His wide smile is hard to ignore and you watch his hand nervously take yours again.

“So you know that I was gonna ask you if you wanted to go get pizza after this, then?”

“Actually, I didn’t,” you admit, but you grin at him, closing the history book on your lap. “But I’d love to either way.”

He pulls you up onto your feet and almost drags you out the door to his car, yelling up the stairs at Ford that he’d be back later, and you both get into his car and drive towards town, the sun long gone and the moon following you down the road.


End file.
